


Painted Lady

by Transistance



Series: Butterflies [1]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Asexual Character, Butterflies, Canon Trans Character, Established Relationship, F/M, Introspection, Kissing, Pre-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, a parabolic relationship instead of a linear one, nice? This is looking like it'll be a six part series - two pre-canon fics, four during and two post - taking place over a scattering of years. Also a very queerplatonic relationship and rambling prose... sorry about that.
> 
> I'm not really certain if butterfly kisses are weird or not. Are they a thing that actual people actually do? Help

There's no sound. Perhaps there should be – perhaps some distant generic disturbance should filter in through the door, or birdsong should grace the air outside, or he should speak; be anything but careful with his voice. But he is, so there isn't, and Grell can hold silence like a vacuum when she chooses to. She's sitting not-quite-on him and not-quite-on the desk, neither uncomfortable nor disturbing his careful piles of paperwork, smirking at him as well as she can without her glasses on. 

Grell is... strange. Different, certainly, but for all their inconsistencies he knows her at least as well as she knows him. Quiet is a comforting vice, and they embrace it; after a certain point words are moot and company is all that is looked for.

(Grell has bright eyes and warm hands and several thousand annoying turns of phrase which grate on his nerves, and William loves her.)

Her black coat seems to pin her body into hard lines, an absolute masculinity that she hasn't yet managed to escape despite the fact that she has worn makeup since they were juniors and her hair falls past her elbows. Over the years she has evolved from a ruby-red admiral to a peacock to the truly painted lady that she is today, emerged from the chrysalis that death bestows on them all as something unequivocally gorgeous.

He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck – everywhere but her lips, because although they are kind and beautiful they're not his. In return she twists around him, flattening her face to his, closing her lashes against his skin. It is more-or-less intimate in the same way that it's more-or-less pleasant; there's no physical ease to be gained from the gesture, but the significance of it is emotionally _right_. A reaper's glasses are endlessly important, and when close to him hers hang loose around her neck. He has no idea why she trusts him like this, but it has always been evident that trust breeds trust. Especially when it's not offered at all from most sides.

They are both lonely but too proud to ask for help – so they don't talk about their situation; not ever. They merely offer one another solace and companionship when it is needed, no more often than that. William cannot offer the commitment that Grell craves and Grell cannot offer the absolute stability that William desires, but there is some simple satisfaction in the security offered by knowing that someone else's skin will always be welcoming of your touch. Any off-day can be alleviated through having someone close, to be listened to and feel wanted. The two of them fit well together because their problems so rarely overlap – and in the rare occasions that they do, they're on the same side of the matter. Both have slightly too many little issues to be dealt with alone, slightly too much time spent in isolation.

In order to counteract this, they periodically engage in some aggressively platonic physical affection – usually at work, usually without interruption, and usually without any particular aim in mind. William has been chastised for it once ( _“Wasting office time, indecent behaviour for a public space”_ ) and actively commended for it several more ( _“Never seen Sutcliff so relaxed, never thought that temper could be dampened by something so inoffensive, never thought you'd take your mind off the paperwork”_ ). All of his superiors know, of course (as do all of his subordinates, and indeed everybody who's ever worked in London) but it's not as though they're doing anything scandalous. Odd, maybe, _queer_ \- well, yes – but people acclimatise to the idea fairly quickly. They're treated with a sort of bemused good humour, which – given his disagreeable frigidness and her gender presentation – is more than acceptable.

It's coming on half a century that they've been like this, holding an on-and-off relationship that is nonetheless the opposite of patchy. The initiation had been much the same as its progression; isolation had felt out of step on the night of intermittence between the end of their exam and the start of official reaperhood.

He can recall the sheer relief of having passed – and passed _well_ , according to the examiners; in spite of his initial failure Grell's intervention had both salvaged the situation and proven that they could work brilliantly in cohesion – and the blurred enjoyment of being around people who were equals now and in turn equally intent upon getting plastered before the commencement of the rest of eternity. He had never been too keen on parties thrown when still in the academy (every face unknown, all noises far too loud and drunks too annoying; the dragging weight of knowing that he could and should have been studying, the knowledge that any night wasted could be the one that failed him) but found the abrupt switch from peers to colleagues made everyone rather more approachable – perhaps exhilarated; as buzzed as he had been – and the transition from _must pass_ to _must work_ favoured him. So he'd had a few drinks, chatted aimlessly to strangers with broad and unfamiliar smiles, and eventually bumped into Grell somewhere near the edge of the room. She was standing with her head held high, _glaring_ at the majority of people who looked the wrong way at her, and utterly, terribly alone.

(Of course she hadn't been a _her_ then, hadn't understood herself for a decade or two, but he doesn't enjoy the fission that trying to plot her gender causes so tends to pretend that she has always been as she is now.)

Possibly if he'd been more sober he would have ignored her, because he's not a kind individual by nature and she'd started making passes at him the day after the exam, which he didn't enjoy having to respond to. But alcohol made him amicable, for the most part, and when he'd caught her attention she'd jumped like a spring-trap before smiling with all of her teeth. He'd attempted to make conversation. She'd informed him rather rakishly, and with complete hypocrisy, that he was drunk. There had been an ill-placed remark about celebrating having passed – he'd been referring to the party – and Grell had stopped dead, given him a look that had reminded him both that she hadn't known him long enough to tell sincerity from mockery and that she was absolutely honest about being attracted to him, and then given him a _look_ that said _prove it_.

Looking back on it, taking the option to back out would have almost certainly have destroyed any potential for trust between the two of them. It would have been very easy to walk away, but even by that point he had seen her violence and been aware that throwing her under the bus right before attempting to work as her partner for the foreseeable future might not have been the most logical course of action to take. He hadn't loved her – hadn't even particularly liked her; certainly hadn't been attracted to her – but equally had passed the point in the night by which things like _reputation_ and _respectability_ and indeed anything requiring a delicacy of thought were at hand. Grell had been right in front of him and practically pleading not to be cast aside, even if that was an expression that she was trying to keep hidden under a subtle mask of derision, so he had kept speaking until she'd started to talk back; had let the lulling shifts of conversation and fumbling body language draw them inward.

Grell had paused very close to him, eyed him for a long moment and then unexpectedly pulled her glasses off and leaned forward to close the maw of her eyelashes against the tip of his nose, which had confused him greatly and been slightly uncomfortable because of that. So, feeling that _one_ of them had to do what was socially expected, he'd kissed her.

It had been... interesting. William had had no experience in the area – death wiped the slate clean, and he had been a very stolid trainee – and the fact that they were both inebriated rather ruined any chance of it not being a mess. Grell's teeth had been a horrible surprise and there had been more than a little thinly veiled aggression in her motions, sullied by hesitation, until she'd broken away to laugh at him. It hadn't been malicious, catalysed only by the elation and the alcohol, but genuine; it had been the first time he'd seen her look genuinely happy.

The rest of the party isn't particularly clear in his mind; he can remember touching Grell's shoulder, although he's not sure why, and her erratic need to socialise being stultified by the fact that she didn't seem to get along with anybody else present. She did have friends, he'd been sure, or admirers certainly – but whatever group they belonged to hadn't been their batch of trainees. She'd stuck close to him and made the sort of dry, mocking remarks about the people around them that bought dislike quickly.

They'd wound up in William's bed – because his room was closer than hers, and the bed was warmer than the couch – and had a hazy discussion about Grell's hair, which William only knows because he can remember running a hand through it and Grell's answering grin; huge, blind and delighted. Miraculously the following morning had not brought Earth-shaking repercussions for either of them from any side, and that nothing had happened admitted no basis for shame or regret; pair jumping to the office seemed the natural thing to do, and things had somehow snowballed from there.

These days they both reap social benefits from the arrangement – Grell gains a vestige of protection from anyone who would do her harm but would not go out of their way to anger William (and given that he is in a position of direct authority over the more physically capable section of them, this goes a fair way). William gains a shade more humanity than he would be credited for otherwise; that he has a personal relationship with another being, even if it is Grell, proves that he is not so cold and dead and heartless as would be logically concluded were he passively disinterested in everyone. It makes him slightly more approachable, given the evidence that he expresses at least some emotion and at least some desire.

He doesn't desire her in the carnal way that everyone assumes, but that's beside the point. The point is that people view him as being the same as them, just another homosexual (or a heterosexual with unusual tolerance), and so don't look twice at him other than to give comment – often snide, but rarely unfounded – about the contrast between the two of them.

They've slept together, of course, by the metaphorical and literal meanings of the term, but it isn't a regular occurrence and is rarely based in physical want. The incidents are isolated, and decreed by a singular requirement for comfort or escapism – after the first time that Grell is attacked by a man for wearing something he deemed too feminine for her; after William botches an easy reap badly, leaving five souls lost and his partner severely injured; after their first scheduled reaping of a child, who is beaten, raped and dismembered by a family member for showing one too many signs of leaning toward being queer (the child in question had had red, red hair, and William was and still is convinced that whomever decided that Grell should be the one on that job had targeted her out of some twisted malevolence). Otherwise, they've no need to; Grell is deemed attractive enough by most standards that she has little problem pulling in men that she decides she wants, and William has never particularly felt the need for a sexual partner. 

Occasionally Grell gets worked up about this, and tells him that “it's okay to have the libido of a rock!” as though she expects him to feel distressed about not wanting to bed people. Given how much trouble her trysts seem to create, he finds it difficult to believe that he's missing out on much.

There's a knock at the door, so William is forced to stop kissing Grell and call “Come in,” to whomever's made the mistake of wanting to talk to him now. Most of the department has learned when not to bother him – it used to be embarrassing to be walked in on, and he would stand quickly in a futile attempt to pretend that he hadn't been so entwined with Grell. These days he just talks to the visitor as though Grell isn't sprawled across him with her face against his neck, and more often than not no comment is made, and the embarrassment is on the other foot entirely – which means that this is either urgent or one of the new juniors.

It turns out to be the latter. He recognises the boy by face but not name – it's Grell's trainee; he's only been here a month, and he manages a “Hey, I was told that Senior Sutcliff would be-” before his eyes catch up with his tongue and his face colours very quickly. “Oh, I didn't know- sorry! Sorry, I'll go, I'll come back la-”

William feels Grell's evil grin against his skin before she pulls away from him, standing in a fluid movement that manages to swing her half way around the desk. “Ronnie!” she cries, spreading her arms as though requesting an embrace. This only makes the junior look more uncomfortable. “No, you're not going anywhere. Have you any _idea_ what you've just interrupted?”

“Something that would've been much worse had I arrived ten minutes later?” he guesses, eyes everywhere but William, and Grell's smile widens.

“You've just walked in on the best kept secret in the dispatch,” she informs him, and begins to saunter toward him, her gait certain and predatory. “Why, if anybody were to find out...”

“I won't tell anyone!” Her manner has unnerved him enough that he takes a step back, and does now glance at William in a plea for aid. William offers none. This is not the first time that a junior has walked in on them, and Grell has developed a routine.

“Won't you? I don't know, Ronnie, lovely though you are you've a mouth on you like a motor...” She puts two fingers to her lips and tilts her head, pacing around him and still grinning. “No, I don't think we can risk it. I am dreadfully sorry it had to be this way, my love.”

She summons her scythe – an elegantly tapered axe, far too slim for chopping wood but just about perfect for reaping – which is William's cue to say, “You can't kill _another_ one, Grell. Upper Management will start asking questions.”

“But not about _us_ , right? That's what counts here.” Ronald's face has gone absolutely white, and Grell has stopped moving; she stands in front of the boy, sizing him up. “What do you think?” she breathes, aiming the question at either of them. “The neck? The chest; the abdomen? Where would be quickest, hm?”

“Please don't... Senior, I swear, I don't...” He closes his eyes, tips his head back a little as though in prayer – and Grell begins to snigger. She always seems to derive an inane amount of joy from people being scared of her, and after a few moments her junior opens his eyes again and regards her with wary confusion. He glances over to William, who gives an eye-roll in reply, and then says hesitantly, “...This is a joke, right? You two aren't actually worried that I'll tell anyone.”

“No! Of course not. Everybody this side of the Channel knows about us. They probably sent you to find me in here on purpose; heaven knows you're not the first and won't be the last to walk right in. It's becoming a bit of an initiation rite!” Grell's grinning again, but not so nastily, and slaps Ronald on the shoulder as her scythe disappears again. “Just a bit of fun, Ronnie. You're my junior; I'll protect you or die trying, don't you worry.”

“...Right,” he says, then laughs nervously. “That's... I'm glad.”

Grell's expression softens, and she ruffles his hair – an incredibly fond gesture that William has never seen her bestow on anyone before. “What did you need me for, anyway?”

“Just to hand in my papers.”

“Oh – you can hand them straight to Will here; I'm sure I needn't check through them.” Ronald's eyes jump up to William again, and he pulls a face. William smiles as cordially as possible and gestures for the paperwork.

(A few days later Ronald catches William in the corridor and says, with some urgency, “Hey, man, look, you do what makes you happy and all that but if I'm gonna walk in on someone bending my mentor over a desk I need some warning, right? You've gotta let me know – I mean, I've nothing against it, I just don't want to-”

William lets Ronald talk himself out before giving the assurance that he and Grell are not in a sexual relationship and that Ronald will never walk in on them in a situation any more compromising than he already has. This makes the junior give him the most dubious look he's ever seen, but some of the jumpiness drains from his face and he smiles rather cheerfully. “Right. Great. That's a reassurance and a half, boss – thanks.”)

Once his papers are safely on the desk, Ronald makes a shallow excuse and escapes before he's forced to witness any other eccentricities between his senior and his supervisor. It's probably a wise move. The two watch him go and Grell turns her smirk back onto William, holding it for a moment before remarking, “He's a sweetheart, isn't he?”

“His paperwork isn't brilliant,” William answers, flicking through it. “How is he on the field?”

“Bah! I talk about the kid's personality and you make it sound like he's got no more merit than how well he does his job. He's quick, very bright – easily distracted, but I think after a few more serious reaps his cockiness might dim down a bit.”

“Like yours has?” 

Grell laughs, brightly, and rolls her eyes at him. “You can't ask a lady to abandon her flair! And I know how fond you are of my self-assurance.” She's not wrong. Grell hasn't always been so confident; once her brashness was derived from fear and anger, only fuelling her own derision and the stinging mockery of others. And it hasn't landed her in any severe trouble so far – she's skilled enough to fight her way out of most problems on the field. Her junior, unfortunately, has ABC in practical grades and needs to learn when to pay attention on the field if his academy notes are anything to go by. But he will improve. That's part of the reason that he was paired with Grell in the first place: even though she is reckless, there is no chance that she will skip out on teaching him, to the best of her ability, how to fight with the same prowess.

“Well, I should be off,” she purrs, only now taking the time to replace her glasses over her eyes. She moves back to him to pull him into a short embrace, entirely unnecessary given that they'll see each other again before the day is out – but it's more than welcome. Grell's arms are slim and strong and a comfort in themselves.

It's reassuring to know that, in spite of her unpredictability and however time turns turbulent as it passes, Grell will remain a consistency in his life.


End file.
